


Visionaries

by ThreeBeetsToTheWind



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars: Thrawn Series - Timothy Zahn (2017)
Genre: Art, Denial of Feelings, Developing Friendships, Emotional Constipation, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Feelings, Female Friendship, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mr. and Mrs. Smith in space, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, but with a plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2020-05-19 23:53:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19366189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThreeBeetsToTheWind/pseuds/ThreeBeetsToTheWind
Summary: Palpatine pits the two greatest threats to his reign against each other but he doesn't consider what could happen once they see each other.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been counting the days until Thrawn Treason comes out and decided to put that energy into making my own content instead. This story came to me as I was falling asleep one night and just took off. I'm excited to share it (my first fic!) with you!

Chapter 1

 

_"Art does not reproduce what we see; rather, it makes us see."_

_Paul Klee_

 

“Emperor Palpatine, how may I be of service?”

The blue hologram projected in his sanctum spoke, “I have received intelligence of a rebel plot to infiltrate the Chimaera and assassinate you, Grand Admiral.”

Grand Admiral Thrawn raised a black eyebrow but said nothing.

“It is no doubt tied to your recent successes that crushed the rebel cells in the Outer Rim.”

The Chiss inclined his head, again saying nothing.

“It would be wise to tread carefully, and eliminate this threat.”

This time, Thrawn spoke, “I am grateful for this information, my lord,” he paused, “the Chimaera will reassess the potential threats to security and adjust accordingly.”

“See that you do. We would not want to lose our _Grand Admiral._ ”

*

“Your next assignment will be a true test of your abilities as my Hand.” 

“Because of your training, I will not fail,” said the figure kneeling on the cold, stone floor.

“That remains to be seen.” Palpatine’s eyes narrowed. “We have a traitor in our ranks.”

She met his gaze. “What would my Emperor have me do?”

The man shrouded in black made a sound that could have been a laugh. “What you do best, my child _._ There is no one else I would trust with this mission.”

The woman’s eyes widened in surprise and she again lowered her head in gratitude. “Your Imperial Majesty, I am honored by your choice. Whom shall I seek?”

“That is the test. You will infiltrate the Imperial Star Destroyer Chimaera,” he leaned back in his chair, “find the traitor, and eliminate them.”

The stone doors strained as they opened—a sign of dismissal. 

“I will not fail you... _Master_.” 

*

Outside the Emperor’s audience chamber Juna let out a long exhale. It had been too long since she’d last had a real challenge. 

A smile bloomed on her face. 

_Let’s do this._

_*_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love to listen to music as I write and try to match up the feel of a specific scene with a song. It helps me feel grounded in the story. If I had to choose a song to play just after the last line was said, it would be "Spirit in the Sky" by Norman Greenbaum, which I hope will set the tone for this fic!
> 
> Come hangout on Twitter (@beets_to) or Tumblr (@ThreeBeetsToTheWind)!


	2. Chapter 2

The return trip from Coruscant to her home planet of Naboo had gone by quickly enough but she was ready to work. Nothing was sweeter than that familiar rush she felt from a complex, high-stakes situation _._

Her apartment in Theed was as she left it—a haphazard mix between a bazaar and an art gallery. Collecting art had begun as a joke really... 

*

A few years back on Canto Bight she’d been about to lose an embarrassingly large amount of money in a game of Sabac. She had let a wily Trandoshan get under her skin. She’d bet everything; her ship, apartment—even her custom made dress.

Right as she was about to accept the fact that she would, in fact, be leaving this casino with quite literally nothing her vision blurred and all she could see was one card in her hand. This was _not_ the card she’d been planning on playing. She considered ignoring this ever so obvious and annoying nudge from the force—annoying because using the force to cheat took away the thrill and because these light side prompts were a double-edged sword: act on them and risk the ire of her master, or ignore them and risk losing _all_ hints from the force for an unknown length of time—but in a rare show of self-control she slapped it down on the table. Five minutes later she had no less than five other patrons berating her for throwing all their bets off—she had _won_. They threw the usual insults and taunts, trying to get her to behave like an ass and forfeit her winnings, but one insult was particularly venomous. 

“You wouldn’t even know what to do with it,” spat the Trandoshan, gesturing toward a painting she had apparently won, “You probably don’t even know what it is you ignorant, opportunistic sl—“

Normally she would have let an insult like this slide off her back—well, maybe not—but instead of the usual punch to the diaphragm she opened her mind and let the force trickle in..

 _Alright—_ she thought to herself— _I played your little game—it’s time to pay up and tell me what I need to know._

To this day she swears she heard the sound someone would make if they were chuckling but trying to mask it with their hand and then _—_

“You mean the Miamaki?” She cut him off, gesturing to the abstract painting on the table, “It’s not his most _revelatory_ work, per say,” she continued nonchalantly, “but the reductive quality of the purity of line brings within the realm of discourse the distinctive formal juxtapositions _—_ a rhizomatic piece such as this merits _—_ even _demands—_ ”

She continued for a few more seconds until the Trandoshan lunged at her _—_ claws outstretched _—_ but before he could reach her he was pounced on by casino security. 

 

In the chaos of the scene, Juna felt someone stand next to her. 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, but damn if you don’t sound like you do.”

She turned expecting a confrontation but was met with a roguish grin on the roundest, most freckled face she’d ever seen. She looked the humanoid woman up and down _—_ which didn’t take too long—

“Do I know you?”

She stuck a freckled hand out, “The name’s Boz.” The girlish lilt to her voice belied her callused hands. “Tell me about yourself, kid.”

“No.”

Boz barked out a laugh. “Ohh, fangs out are we now?—I kid!” She added when she saw Juna’s expression. “Come on, let me buy you a drink. I think we’ve got a lot to talk about.”

“Who are you?” Asked Juna, with slightly less hostility.

“I’m an art collector...of sorts,” her smile widened, “and I’m looking for an appraiser.”

*

Juna plopped down on her bed and pulled out her datapad. Keying it on, as she began lazily perusing a list of the senior officers stationed on the Chimaera one stood out like a bantha on Coruscant. 

A _Chiss_? 

Her eyes widened as she considered this man—Grand Admiral Thrawn (Mitth'raw'nuruodo), it said under his military ID photo—and she made a mental note to brush up on Chiss culture and history, from what little information existed outside the Unknown Regions anyways.

His ISB file was brief. _Chiss male, joined empire 11 BBY, marital status: unknown, allegiance: suspected ties to homeworld_ —

She quickly swiped right to see more images. 

Routine missions.

Multiple pictures of Thrawn with the same curly haired, tan skinned Ensign.

Thrawn coming out of a... _museum?_

An Imperial with _hobbies?_ And an interesting one at that...

She rolled over onto her stomach and propped herself up. More swiping.

Thrawn exiting a small, hole in the wall shop with a mid-sized parcel. Several pictures like this, all in different locations—all with some sort of package.

What was this guy playing at? He must have been the stupidest Grand Admiral the navy had ever seen or, simply had a cocky amount of self-confidence. It would have been easier for him to send the ISB a formal invitation to investigate him. 

There was more data available but a familiar whisper assured her that there was no need to read further. She swiped back to the photo at the museum. Her eyes narrowed as she saw the slight upward curve of his lips. 

This Chiss was precise and didn’t do anything on accident, she realized. You don’t just _accidentally_ become a kriffing _Grand Admiral_. This _Thrawn_ was how she would gain access to the Chimaera. 

Exhaling she sat up and dropped the worn datapad onto the bed next to her. From what _little_ she knew of the Chiss off the top of her head, they were dangerously clever and ruthless when they set their mind to a task. 

_Well,_ she smirked, _we’ll just have to see what you’ve set your mind to, Grand Admiral._

_*_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to the song Lonesome Rider by Volbeat and Sarah Blackwood while writing. Come hangout on Twitter (@beets_to) or Tumblr (@ThreeBeetsToTheWind)!


	3. Chapter 3

Several weeks later Juna awoke to her datapad’s ping. Groggily, she rolled over to check it and cursed all the shots of daranu a particularly rogish Rodian had bought for her the night before. She had worked a long day with Boz, appraising a few Serrenian vases that had fallen off the back of a transport which had mysteriously been left unlocked. She had seriously needed to unwind and Nio did the job well enough. 

If only he wasn’t such an idiot. 

Even _she_ knew not to drink daranu and race jumpspeeders. No rush of adrenaline was worth the risk of falling to your death from the waterfalls surrounding the Royal Palace. 

She keyed on her datapad.

_Dear Ms. Cole,_

_We are pleased to inform you that your proposal has been accepted and you will be representing Naboo as a cultural attaché aboard the ISD _Chimaera_ , which is under the command of Grand Admiral…_

*

Looking out on her sea of trunks stuffed with all sorts of fine apparel and the crates with neatly packed furnishings, she wondered if she would make it to the transport on time. 

Probably not. 

She had spent weeks curating a collection of artifacts that would make her look the part of a well-meaning, harmless cultural attaché whose _only_ mission was to promote

awareness and understanding of Naboo’s culture. She had chosen art that most people on Naboo loved, and some that they hated. Nothing says more about a culture—or a person—than what they don’t like. 

She had to use the force to close the first couple of trucks packed with Naboo fashion—she had designed and commissioned a good number specifically for this mission to supplement her already substantial wardrobe. 

At least they won't go to waste—if she misses this transport, she can wear one of her new gowns to explain to the Emperor why exactly she failed to even _begin_ her mission. 

A knock at the door brought her back to the present.

She opened the door to reveal a girl—more of a woman maybe—or someone caught awkwardly in the middle. 

“Aren’t you a little short for an assassin?”

“If only. Assassins get paid.” 

“Well then what are you exactly? If you’re here to rob me, the jewels are in that trunk.” She nodded her head toward a metallic container and resumed packing. She _would_ fit her entire holovid collection in this _damned_ case—

The newcomer’s eyes skipped to the jewels and just as quickly bounced back. “No—“

“While you’re standing there, put those plates—gently, mind you—in the open trunk on your left—unless you have somewhere to be?”

“Uh—yes, of course, I mean no, I—“ 

“What do you mean assassins get paid?” She stopped packing. “Are you not paid?” 

Her young visitor made her way through the chaos over to the china and cutlery and began her task. “I will get paid—once I work away my debt. Are you an artist?” She pointed at the paintings stacked against the wall, “Those paintings are so _interesting_ —”

“Yes—no, they’re not _my_ paintings. I own them, but didn’t paint them. I don’t paint. Anymore.

“But that’s neither here nor there—your debt?”

“To Freyeq—you know,” she had now packed all the silverware and had moved on to the eclectic assortment of canvases, “for rent, food, protection—all my earnings go to—”

Ah. Suddenly it clicked in her mind. Naboo’s abundant natural resources allowed the government to set up a social structure so no one would fall through the cracks. But cracks always appeared, even where you least expected them. Freyeq ran part of the small underbelly that did exist on Naboo. That sleemo would _‘save’_ kids off the street, give them a place to live, and get them enrolled in school. It looked honorable, even noble on the surface, but not if you dug deeper. 

Freyeq ran one of the other non-traditional enterprises on Naboo, but instead of smuggling antiquities like Boz, he sold spice. His _‘little birds,’_ would act as couriers. They drew less attention to themselves than adults. The _‘school’_ these children went to was just whatever delivery or illicit deal needed to happen that day. He paid them—of course, but he charged them rent to live in his facilities. Somehow the poor kids never seemed to earn enough to pay their rent or cover unexpected costs—like an extra blanket—and steadily built up debt. 

But it wasn’t her business. 

And yet—

That didn’t mean she couldn’t remember what it had been like...

Being young. And scared. Fending for herself. That was her life before her Master, before she set herself free—

 _Curse_ this weakness—

“You’re hired.”

“W-what?”

“You’re hired.”

“ _Why_?”

Why _had_ she hired her? 

She was no savior. 

...But she wasn’t Freyeq. Talk about setting the bar low. 

A beat, then—

“Because I’m going to be late to the _Chimaera_ if I don’t get this all packed—well don’t just stand there!” She scoffed, “An assistant who doesn’t assist...who ever heard of such a thing?” 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to the song Glitter & Gold by Barnes Courtney while writing this chapter.  
> Brownie points if you find the Game of Thrones reference—but you lose the points if you bring up the series finale.
> 
> Edit: I forgot to add this when I posted the chapter but I used some of Asajj Ventress' inner monologue from the comic, Star Wars Age of Republic Special, when Juna is thinking about hiring her visitor.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact, the people on Naboo are referred to as "the Naboo," as opposed to something like "Nabooians" or "Nabooites." I only say this here because using "the Naboo" threw my beta reader for a loop so I wanted to make sure and clarify it here. Happy reading!
> 
> Update: one twitter conversation later aaaaaaand the first piece of [fan art](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/D_s3yRIUEAEv6tM?format=jpg&name=900x900) is here! Big shout out to [@Dankobah](https://twitter.com/dankobah?s=17) for it! Thrawn would definitely hang it in his collection.

“—and may I present Commander Faro, my second in command.”

After docking, Juna had regurgitated the necessary diplomatic formalities and Grand Admiral Thrawn had introduced her to each member of the small greeting party, starting with an out of place looking Lieutenant Commander and ending with a confident looking woman on the left. 

These two stood out. Unlike the other officers, there was more than boredom emanating from them at the prospect of a diplomatic luncheon. To be fair, imperial diplomatic events were hit or miss if her memory served her correctly.

Vanto’s curiosity seemed more social. Juna resolved to figure out a way to spend time with him and figure him out. He was Thrawn’s aide after all. If anyone knew his dirty laundry, it would be Lieutenant Commander Vanto. 

Juna extended her hand to grasp Faro’s. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Commander Faro,” she said politely.

“Likewise, Your Excellency.” 

Commander Faro was a different story. She oozed skepticism. It hardly required any concentration to read the emotions on her face, or her imprint in the force. This woman was sharp. But Juna would find a smooth edge, or make one if she had to. 

“To formally welcome you to the _Chimaera_ ,” Thrawn continued, “I would be honored to present to you a welcoming gift, as a token of our appreciation for your residency.” He gestured to an ensign walking up to him carry an oddly shaped box. With a gentle touch that belied his commanding presence, the Grand Admiral produced a small bronze statue. “It is Shiraya, the winged goddess of the Naboo.”

Juna resisted the fleeting impulse to roll her eyes. You’d be hard pressed to find someone on Naboo who couldn’t recognize their goddess.

“Your taste does you credit, Grand Admiral. May I?” She gestured to the object.

He reverently handed it to her.

When the cool bronze touched her skin, she went into appraisal mode.

“I’m impressed, Grand Admiral. Shiraya holds much value to the Naboo, and this statue in particular unique in several respects.” She pointed to the instrument being thrust into the sky by the goddess. “Shiraya statues more or less follow the same design—a winged woman, triumphantly and with grace, holding the moon in the night sky so that we, the Naboo, could see in the darkness. The only known difference is the tendency for small individualized details on the celestial body.” Her finger traced the delicate markings. “Most of the noble houses customized this part of the statue in their private collections as an outward manifestation of their inner…” She tilted her head to get a better look and her voice trailed off as she realized just whose house this statue had belonged to.

She willed herself to push down memories of another goddess walking among her people, and that day on Naboo at the market when she lost…

Before anyone noticed anything was amiss with their guest, Ensign Vanto spoke up after consulting his commlink.

“Sir, there is a code 857 on deck six.”

Thrawn’s face remained impassive but his energy shifted to a higher level of alertness tinged with disappointment. 

“Your excellency,” he said, turning to her, “I must see to an urgent matter. If I am unable to attend the luncheon, I hope to continue our conversation at the reception this evening.”

“There is nothing to apologize for, Grand Admiral. I serve at the pleasure of the Emperor.” She extended her hand to shake his but he clasped hers and brought it up to his lips, and kissed it. 

“Until this evening, then.”

 _That_ was not in his ISB file.

“I look forward to it.”

*

“Does he always greet his cultural attachés with lessons on art from their home world?”

Vanto chuckled as he walked in-step with Juna to her quarters. “That’s just the Grand Admiral—it was his way of showing he appreciates your culture. When he got your request to travel with the _Chimaera_ , he studied your art for weeks.”

“Did he? Is that uncommon?” 

Vanto worked to suppress a grin. “Let’s just say that you and the Grand Admiral are going to get along just fine.”

“Why? Do you expect a cultural lecture on Lysatran art?” she quipped. “You are from Lysatra, are you not?” She added hastily, mentally kicking herself. A cultural attaché wouldn’t know that kind of information. 

“You have a good ear, Your Excellency. But no, that’s not what I meant.” His brown eyes rested on hers for a second and he began again, “it’s only that you seem to really know your stuff, and the Grand Admiral does too. I think, sometimes, it’s hard for him,” the young officer added.

“To be challenged?” Juna asked dryly. If this Thrawn was as arrogant as he sounded, she had half a mind to assassinate him at the reception this evening to save herself the inevitable migraine brought on my having to listen to another self-proclaimed ‘art connoisseur.’

“The opposite, actually.”

Abruptly, they stopped. “Here are your quarters, Your Excellency,” he said, slipping back to a more formal tone, “your belongings have already been delivered. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to comm me.” The commlink he handed her was silver and sleek. “And again, welcome to the _Chimaera._ ”

*

She wasn’t sure what she had expected but she was pleasantly surprised when she entered her quarters to find a spacious salon, a decent sized refresher, and a door that led to sleeping quarters. She started surveying the space for potential locations for various pieces of art, plants, her holovid collection, and wardrobe, among other things. On second thought, she _might_ have over packed. 

“I will arrange for you to have quarters nearby, but for now you will…” she trailed off as she turned back to look at her assistant. The young woman was still holding the Grand Admiral’s gift, but her face had changed. Not understanding the sudden shift in mood, Juna reached out with the force to get a feel on how to proceed.

She felt...loss. _Terrible_ loss. The kind of loss that makes you run away and leave your old life behind without a second thought.

“Take it.” Juna placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder and gently turned her so they were facing each other. “It speaks to you—does it not?”

“I wouldn’t know what to do with it, I don’t have a place to put it—don’t even collect art,” she bit out, her eyes still boring into the statue.

“Every collection has a first piece, Pooja.”

At the sound of her name, her head snapped up, seeming to just now be aware of her surroundings. She quietly cleared her throat and the emotions on her face faded back to a convincingly neutral expression. “How do you know so much about art, anyway?” She asked, raising her eyebrows.

The corners of Juna’s mouth curved up as she tucked a strand of curly, chestnut hair behind Pooja’s ear.

“I wasn’t always an attaché.” 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to Can't Help Falling in Love by Haley Reinhart while writing this chapter. I love her take on this classic ballad.
> 
> I'm going to start posting links to various parts of canon and legends I'm pulling from for this fic. Peruse at your own peril, sometimes they might be a bit spoilery.
> 
>    
> https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Shiraya


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, wonderful readers! I so so so appreciate your patience with this update. Last month, I defended my thesis and passed! I'm Master ThreeBeetsToTheWind now ;) 
> 
> A quick note about this chapter—I wrote it and then checked out parts of the book, Queen's Shadow. There are definitely some similarities between some descriptions in this chapter and that book, but I didn't use QS as a reference for this chapter. I can't wait to read it though!

The Queens of Naboo had a reputation for wearing unnecessarily lavish clothing. Their tailors crafted, and in some cases built, deeply colored garments adorned with ornate embellishments and designs meaningful to the culture of the Naboo. 

Many foreign dignitaries took their seemingly exuberant fashion sense as a sign of frivolity that is often seen in youth. They assumed that if a queen spent her time picking out her outfits instead of attending council meetings, her mismanaged priorities would make her relatively easy to manipulate to their advantage. 

In reality, the Queen had little say in her wardrobe—her handmaidens and staff had undergone years of training and were fit to the task of dressing the Queen for all types of battle, and preparing her to win. 

 

There was nothing more delightfully pitiful than the stunned face of a foreign diplomat who just realized that his scheming was not as subtle as he had thought. 

There is no more powerful weapon than being underestimated. 

*

When Juna had learned her candidacy on the Chimaera had been approved, she’d immediately contacted her couturier. Though most of the pieces she had on hand would suffice, she needed a few specialized garments, included the dress she would wear to the welcoming reception tonight. 

Juna surveyed herself in the floor-length mirror leaning against an open trunk—she _loved_ this dress. To be fair, it was more an ocean of fabric than a dress. The jewel-encrusted bodice flowed downward to meet the deep crimson skirts that billowed behind her. When she moved, the ornate silver embroidery on the skirts melded together into a mesmerizing blur of metallic red. 

To complete the look, a halo of delicate, silver rods crowned her coppery brown locks, which were twisted into a loose chignon. Perhaps she was hitting it a bit on the nose with the reference to Shiraya, but the last-minute addition to her ensemble would be seen as a compliment to Grand Admiral Thrawn and his earlier gift of the statue. _You’ve got to play their game,_ Juna thought to herself as she hiked her skirts up and began strapping a dagger to her leg.

_Only fools dance unarmed._

*

The reception began steadily with an acceptable, albeit low, number of officers using the dance floor. She could see most of them laughing together, seated at tables, or mingling around the art installation that occupied the back of the room. It was truly a stunning piece. Art from Naboo was scattered throughout, but what was more gripping was the way it had been arranged and lit. That was a work of art in its own right. 

Juna was about to ask Commander Faro to join her in experiencing the installation when she was jolted and swayed on her feet—but swiftly righted herself, turning to counter whatever attack was coming her way and was face to face with a furiously blushing Lieutenant Commander who looked like he wanted the durasteel floor to swallow him up whole.

“Did you know it’s considered rude on Naboo to step on a lady’s dress?” Juna’s eyes narrowed, her expression coldly aloof. 

Like an Alessian terror moth to a flame, other officers seemed to gravitate toward the impending public castigation of their fellow officer. 

Juna’s hand twitched as she gathered the force around her to seize him by the throat and slowly squeeze every last drop of air from his lungs.

Her hand stilled before her fist could close. She was an attaché. At a reception. She mentally corrected herself... _her_ reception. 

A piece of advice that Boz had given her years ago came to the forefront of her mind:

 _People—everyone—just want to be noticed. Talked to._ Not _patronized or ridiculed. You’d never believe how many safe codes or museum drop off schedules have been gleaned from someone who felt seen._

She exhaled the breath she’d been unconsciously holding. Maybe she could turn this to her advantage. She smiled conspiratorially at the disheveled officer, “Except,” she added, wrapping the force around her words and softening the predatory tone of the room, “if you ask her to dance.” The panic emanating from the officer was short-lived as he realized the opening she was giving him.

“Then I will do all in my power to uphold the traditions of the Naboo. May I have this dance, Your Excellency?”

“I would be delighted, lieutenant…?”

“Fritz, my lady, Lieutenant Fritz.” 

“Please,” she led them to the dance floor and smiled at him, “call me Juna.”

*

Juna had been planning on engaging with various officers at the reception to surreptitiously gather intel and make useful contacts, and after her dance with Lieutenant Fritz, who was now never short on partners and was dancing with a particularly handsome commander at the moment, it seemed that further efforts to engage socially were unnecessary. A majority of the officers had at some time during the evening introduced themselves and either danced or just chatted with her for a few minutes. She was especially surprised when Commander Faro joined her for a time. It seemed the Commander was not keen on public displays of humiliation and was grateful that Juna had not taken poor Lieutenant Fritz to task. 

_A good leader doesn’t need to step on subordinates’ backs to feel tall—she’d said looking out onto the increasingly rowdy crowd of imperial officers,_ _it’s good to see that you’re one of them._

Thank the force for Boz and her roguish wisdom—she was not disappointed by the intel she had collected.

The weapons officer, Lieutenant Pyrondi, had mentioned that Thrawn was an avid holovid connoisseur. When Juna inquired into how exactly she knew this, Pyrondi explained: The Lieutenant had walked into the holoprojector room planning on watching the season finale of _Kallea’s Hope,_ but found the room was already occupied by Grand Admiral Thrawn, who was watching a classic holodrama. 

_I told him why I was there and he insisted we watch_ Kallea’s Hope _instead of his holomovie. I could tell he wasn’t impressed, but he didn’t make fun of me. He even asked me questions during the episode about the plot and the characters. I was so nervous—thank the stars there were way fewer tentacles than the last episode—_

Juna had chuckled at that. _Kallea’s Hope_ was one of her favorite holodramas as well. She made a mental note to speak to Pyrondi about the controversial droid/Pantoran love scene later. 

Lieutenant Hammerly, the communications officer, was already a few drinks in when Juna arrived. 

_I’ve never served with anyone like him—she said, taking another shot—you’ll see, if you stick around._

Before Juna could ask her what she meant, Hammerly had been playfully whisked away to dance.

Similar comments were made by other officers. Despite generally positive opinions, many still held a healthy fear of Thrawn, mostly due to the one time he apparently shot an officer _on the bridge._

This man was a walking contradiction. 

So far, the only intel that indicated treason was his streak of non-conformity. He didn’t act like other Admirals most of the time. In other words, he wasn’t an incompetent, power-hungry fool. If that’s what constituted treason in the Empire, she needed to find a new job. No matter. There was plenty of time to figure him out.

After an hour or so of non-stop socializing, she felt the last of her conversational energy leave her body. If she didn’t leave soon, she was going to say or do something that could undo all the progress she’d made tonight. There was nothing like poorly timed bloodshed to erase freshly earned goodwill. She apologetically excused herself to the dismay of the small crowd gathered around her and made her way to the exhibit in the other part of the lounge.

 _Peace at last._

*

“Admiral Thrawn, sir.” Commander Faro inclined her head as the Grand Admiral joined the reception and walked to her side. “The reception so far has been quite a success.” 

“I am glad to hear it, Commander,” he said, accepting a glass of Daruvvian champagne and nonchalantly scanning the crowd.

“Ms. Cole has taken refuge in the gallery, sir.” Faro informed him, mimicking his stance. 

He turned to face her and raised a brow. 

“She made a good impression earlier tonight,” Faro explained, “and eventually I told the officers to give her some space to enjoy the installation.” She smirked, thinking of the gossip that would be shared at 0600 breakfast the next day. No doubt, some of the officers had taken quite a liking to her. Even some high-ranking officers, to be sure. She eyed the Grand Admiral. “I should check in on the bridge crew. Permission to return to the bridge, sir?” 

“Permission granted, Commander.” 

Faro snapped to attention and saluted. “Do enjoy your evening, sir,” she said, working to contain a grin, “I’m sure the attaché would love to hear about the installation from its curator.” 

“Perhaps,” he said, turning his head back toward Ms. Cole. “And if she does, I am assuming that such a discussion would be the topic of conversation at the 0600 mess?” 

“Most certainly, sir,” said Faro, no longer able to suppress a grin. 

“Very well. Good evening, Commander.” 

“Good hunting to you, sir,” Faro turned and walked out of the reception before she could be court-martialed. _For someone so skilled in scheming,_ she mused, _he really is easy to read._

*

She felt rather than saw his approach. His presence in the force was unlike that of the humanoids and aliens she had encountered. With them, she could tiptoe into their hearts and minds undetected, much like sneaking into a house. But _he_ was different. Although she felt his presence in the force, she herself felt equally exposed, like she was tiptoeing into a well-lit room. She pulled back, feeling marginally more discreet, and pursed her lips. _That_ was new. 

“Tell me, Grand Admiral, is it customary aboard _The Chimaera_ to be fashionably late?” Her head swiveled around to look at him, her lips curving into a smile. 

“I do not consider myself quite so fashionable,” he said with a small smile of his own as he joined her in front of the light installation. “Are you enjoying your evening thus far?”

“Very much, thank you. Your officers and staff have been very welcoming.” _And forthcoming_ , she added silently. “The pieces you’ve curated are intriguing.” 

“Are you familiar with the artist’s work?” He studied her face as she surveyed the sculptures and paintings shrouded in the shadows of the angular lighting.

“I’ve been a fan of Eirtaé for a while now, I’m impressed with the scope of your collection of her work. Shall we?” She gestured toward the rest of the installation. 

“Of course.”

They wandered the installation together, discussing the artwork. Juna was explaining the political connotations behind the brushstrokes in a landscape when she saw the painting out of the corner of her eye. She peered closer to confirm her suspicions. Yep. Definitely the same. 

“Do you have a particular affinity for this piece?” 

“I do.” She exhaled, working to hide the grin that was forming on her face as she examined the painting. She would recognize those sweeping, circular brushstrokes and symmetric imbalance a kilometer away. “It reminds me of a piece of my own,” she mused, “would you care to see it?” She reluctantly tore her eyes away from the swirling lines of the blue and green waterfalls to meet his glowing red eyes.

“By all means.”

*

Over the course of the journey to her quarters, Juna attempted to gather intel from her primary source, starting with his mysterious disappearance from the hanger bay earlier that day, but he proved to be frustratingly more tight-lipped than his subordinates.

“It must have been quite a situation to keep you for so long.” She eyed him over the rim of the Corellian brandy she had swiped on her way out of the reception. 

“Yes,” he hesitated, “I apologize for missing the luncheon.”

“No apology necessary, Grand Admiral. I’m sure it was an important matter.”

He inclined his head and gave a brief, albeit terse, summary of the event, “A stormtrooper was experiencing some post-operation difficulty and my presence was required.” 

They turned the corner and entered Juna’s corridor. The lights behind them slowly extinguished as the light fixtures they approached brightened to a soft light, sensing their approach.

“How so?” 

As if he sensed she would not let up until she got an answer, Thrawn exhaled in defeat. “The stormtrooper in question had been experiencing night terrors related to a past combat mission. When we were in the hanger bay, he awoke and began walking around the Chimaera, asleep, and under the impression that he was back on his most recent combat mission. On this particular mission, the troopers were ordered to only communicate with me for security purposes. This stormtrooper was trying to escape what he thought was enemy territory by ejecting himself out of the airlock when the deck officer spotted him.” He steeled himself and continued on, looking forward, still walking. “The officer tried to convince the trooper of the reality of his situation, but he only kept repeating that he would only speak to the Operation Commander.”

“And you talked him down? Away from the airlock?” She asked, nodding hopefully as they approached the door to her quarters.

“I … was not successful.” 

Juna’s face fell as they stopped outside her quarters. Before she could second guess herself, she reached across the space between them and gently placed her hand on his arm.

“I am so sorry. If there is anything I can do, please let me help.” She was surprised by the note of earnest sincerity in her voice. 

“Thank you,” he responded graciously. “I believe seeing the painting you spoke of will suffice at present.” When she only responded with wide eyes, he gestured gently, “Are these not your quarters, Ms. Cole?”

His story had distracted her from her subterfuge. Oh, right. The painting. The painting she was going to show Thrawn. The painting chosen to expose a weakness. The painting that would add to the heavy burden he was doing so well at hiding. _That_ painting? 

She made a choice.

“You must forgive me, Grand Admiral, I suddenly am not well. Perhaps tomorrow would be better for a private viewing.”

She placed her palm on the biometric scanner and the door slid open. Quickly slipping inside, she turned back around to face her concerned and slightly confused house guest. 

“Shall I escort you to the medbay? It’s not far—”

“No—” realizing she cut him off rather sharply she softened her tone, “I thank you for the offer, and if it becomes necessary, I will take you up on it. Good evening, Grand Admiral Thrawn.” She quickly moved her hand to the door control and he—

_—put his hand on the door to block it—_

“Are you sure you’re alright, Your excellency? Allow me to at least assist you in finding the med pack in your quarters, I insist—”

Juna resisted the urge to snarl at his _irritatingly_ endearing tone. He needed to leave _now._ Before his chivalrous pride forced his way into her apartments. 

“There is no need. Truly. Please.” She touched his hand, her tone softening, “I’ll take my leave.”

He withdrew his hand and took a step back. “Good evening, Your Excellency.” 

With her own mumbled words of farewell, she slammed the control, spun around, and sagged against the door. 

How had that situation so completely slipped through her fingers?

For a moment she simply leaned against the door, it’s panels feeling like ice against her back. Her chest rose and fell with the breaths that soon evened out. 

From here she had a direct view of the painting she had intended to rub in Thrawn’s face and observe his reaction—the painting that had helped her through many dark nights. Had he taken even one step into her quarters…

She stared at it, admiring its lines and bold use of color. She’d said it before and she’d say it again, she would recognize these brushstrokes anywhere. 

The impeccable imitation hanging in a certain Grand Admiral’s gallery was startlingly similar, but still inferior to the original, which just so happened to be hanging in a certain cultural attaché’s quarters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to "In the Mood" by Glenn Miller while writing this chapter.
> 
> Brownie points if you spotted the Emperor's New Groove reference xD
> 
> Here are some links to elements of the Star Wars universe mentioned in this chapter. I'm going to borrow the format used by one of my favorite authors, diasterisms, who is a goddess in her own right. 
> 
> Eirtaé  
> [Alessian Terror Moth](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Alessian_terror_moth)  
> [Inspiration for Juna's reception look](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/e8/92/fc/e892fc3bd8142a0ce749b62a6e0af9b3.jpg)  
> [Holodrama](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Holodrama)  
> [Corellian brandy](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Daruvvian_champagne)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is anyone else freaking out about the D23 reveals?! If they do what I think they're gonna do with Rey it's going to be epic! Though I feel like anything they'll do with Rey is going to be great. 
> 
> Happy reading!

Juna sat in the officer’s dining hall with Pyrondi, Hammerly, and Faro. The four of them often dined together over the first few weeks of Juna’s residency. As such, they quickly slipped into friendly conversation and banter. Pyrondi, of course, was always willing to talk about the latest holodrama news with Juna—more so recently that the season finale of ___Kallea’s Hope___ was quickly approaching. Hammerly, despite her inebriated state at the initial reception, was as sharp as a tack. She was like a more uptight version of Boz—minus the thievery and disregard for the rule of law. For the most part, Faro remained collected if not a bit detached. But if she had a story to tell, it was as blue as they came. The worst ones she told— _ _ _specifically___ to torment Juna—were blue both metaphorically and literally. As it turns out, when you leave a reception an hour early with a Grand Admiral in tow, people tend to notice. In other words, the gossip the morning after had not disappointed, and there was never a shortage of crew to ask her cheekily just how much of the Grand Admiral was blue. 

When she had walked into the mess hall the morning after the reception, some officers leaned into each other and whispered behind their hands. Others openly scoffed. A few looked impressed. And then there was Pyrondi. Standing next to a table in the back, slow clapping in a surprising show of solidarity. ___I guess this is what happens when everyone thinks you “discussed art in an intimate setting” with their commanding officer,___ Juna thought, unperturbed.

She laughed it off, and for the most part, told the truth. Thrawn walked her back to her room and they said goodnight. Nothing more, nothing less. Since then, she hadn’t had the chance to spend more time with him. He had slipped into two of the five Naboo art history seminars she’d held on the Chimaera, but never lingered. He looked calm, but when Juna discreetly reached out with the force, she could feel a thin layer of stress slowly enveloping him. Stress from the mantle of responsibility that weighed heavy on his shoulders—or stress because he’s a traitor? Juna scoffed. She was no closer to finding this “traitor” than she was the day before she got the assignment. She needed to try a different angle—

“ _ _ _Juna?___ Coruscant to Juna!” Hammerly broke off from the story she was telling about some stormtrooper and waved a hand in the attaché’s face. “Why did you laugh?”

“ _ _ _What?___ ” Juna bit out.

Hammerly gave her a dry look. “You laughed after I said that the 857 Fritz found last night didn’t make it. I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t turned into a complete masochist.”

Juna racked her brain. She’d heard that code before. 

“You lost another stormtrooper?” Juna asked carefully.

“A trooper who’d been stationed on Batonn,” Hammerly confirmed. “She was there when…” she swallowed and looked at Pyrondi, then Faro, and back to Juna. “When—oh, ___fuck it___ —when the Empire massacred those people.”

Pyrondi looked down at her hands and Faro was about to respond when Hammerly cut her off, “I know what you’re going to say, Karyn, that I shouldn’t break from the official opinion, that I should say what I’m told to say—but I can’t. Not with this.” She paused, gathering her composure, and began again, “If we don’t speak out on attacks against Imperial citizens, we’re no better than ___rebels___.” Hammerly’s voice shook with the knowledge that she’d spoken a deadly truth. 

Faro’s face was hard, but not unsympathetic. “I know, Cin, and—” she scanned the area around them and lowered her voice, “—and I agree with you,” she held up her hand when Hammerly tried to cut her off, “but you’re an ___officer___ , in the ___Imperial___ Navy. Let’s face it, outside of the Chimaera, non-standard opinions aren’t encouraged. Getting yourself court martialed won’t help ___anyone___.”

“Well it’s better than doing ___nothing___!” Hammerly hissed. 

“What if we did something?” Juna broke in. 

Three heads swiveled to stare at her. 

“What if there was some way to help the storm troopers before the situation turns into an 857?” Juna added, surprising herself. It was as if the threads of an idea had begun to weave together in her mind, but they weren’t her threads. Or maybe they were brushstrokes. Brushstrokes painted by a girl who poured her life onto the canvas. The brushstrokes of a girl who’d watched her father lose himself and pay the price.

It was Pyrondi who piped up, “It sounds like you already have something in mind.” She tilted her head.

“I might,” Juna said grimly, “but I’m going to need your help.” 

 

*

A few hours and a lot of caf later, they finished planning, and Juna was ready to present her plan. She took a steady breath and pressed the button to request entrance to Thrawn’s office. The door slid open. 

“Ms. Cole, to what do I owe the pleasure?” 

*

The conversation had begun diplomatically. Pleasantries were exchanged and states of health inquired after. It was when Juna introduced her proposal that things went south. 

“Do you have a medical license?” That was all he asked after she outlined her three-point plan to reduce incidences of code 857 by including stormtroopers in the currently officer only art seminars. A cost-effective, resourceful, well thought out plan—according to one person in the room.

“Well—no, but I—”

“Then I do not see the relevance, Ms. Cole. We have physicians on the Chimaera who are taking care of this issue—”

“Of course you do, but—”

“—so there is no reason to introduce more activities into the stormtrooper schedule.”

“Captain Paelleon was very receptive to the idea,” she finally cut in.

Thrawn’s eyes narrowed down to slits.

“You spoke with my officers of this plan?” 

___Shit___. Too late to turn back now. 

Juna stood tall. “I did. Bottling up emotions isn’t the solution. Look at your troopers—”

“My troopers are within the acceptable margins of Imperial mental fitness standards—”

“Only because they’re too intimidated to speak up—”

“I had not realized you were an expert in military personnel protocol—”

“And ___I___ hadn’t realized that you, ___Grand Admiral___ —are a complete and utter—”

*

At some point during their exchange they had begun moving towards each other and by the end, were standing nose to nose, so close that she could see the gradient of his skin—how sapphire faded to a light blue with dark, freckle-like spots that were at the same time delicate and infuriating—

*

It was Thrawn who broke the ensuing silence.

“Forgive me, Ms. Perrin. I have noted your recommendations, and appreciate the support you are offering to the Imperial Navy.”

He sounded so...defeated. Juna took a second to really look at the Grand Admiral. He seemed almost resigned, like the thin layer of stress she’d noticed around him had turned into carbonite. Extending her perception of the force, she delicately and carefully brushed her mind against his. 

Oh. ___Oh.___

Hastily retreating from his mind, she swallowed her pride. “Admiral, it is I who must seek your forgiveness—” Juna couldn’t remember the last time she’d apologized to someone. “As an attaché, I’m tasked with sharing and preserving my people’s cultures and ways of life. But, in addition to those duties, I task myself with the mandate to encourage responsible evolution of society and policies for that matter. I sometimes...misdirect my passion.”

Thrawn quirked an eyebrow.

“That is to say,” she added hastily, ‘When I see something that is already so good and worthwhile, it is my natural desire _ _ _—___ uh, rather, instinctto improve upon it.”

What ___is going on? Why am I incapable of communicating on at least the level of the average humanoid—___

“If the Empire had more individuals like yourself, Ms. Cole, we would perhaps not be so averse to progress.” 

She smiled up at him, as if she genuinely cared about the Empire. She ___would___ find his secrets—and he just handed her the key: when she was busy verbally assaulting the Admiral, he was wondering how soft her lips would feel against his.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't remember any specific songs I listened to while writing this chapter, but I did have a glass of $5 white wine from Walmart that was surprisingly delicious (not an ad).


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back on my bullshit yeehaw

 

 

The bridge of the Imperial Star Destroyer _Chimaera_ bustled with activity. The movement inside the ship mirrored the systems of the galaxy it patrolled; each had a center from which originated the order of things. Stars tended to be taxed with the burden of holding everything together by sheer force of will and balance. Systems had a star. The Chimaera had Thrawn. 

 

In a few minutes, the bustling day crew would be replaced with the equally competent though slightly less energetic night crew and things would settle in for the night. Senior Lieutenant Pyrondi drummed her fingers on her weapons console, working up the courage to speak with her commanding officer. At that moment, she caught Faro giving her a look that could only be interpreted as _“What in the galaxy are you waiting for?”_ An impish, delicately featured face came to mind and gave her the push she needed to march toward the command console where Thrawn had been speaking with the ship’s Commodore. 

 

Pyrondi stood at attention and then relaxed when Thrawn waved away the formality.

 

“Yes, Sr. Lieutenant Pyrondi?”

 

“Permission to be relieved of duty 10 minutes prior to shift end, sir?”

 

Admiral Thrawn didn’t even look up from his datapad when he answered her request. 

 

“Permission granted, Sr. Lieutenant.”

 

*

 

“Analysis, Commodore Faro.”

 

Faro had steeled herself for the question she’d known was coming, and answered. “Senior Lieutenant Pyrondi has a private engagement tonight sir. She is...anxious, to see someone.”

 

Thrawn was looking just a little too intensely at his console when he asked just a little too nonchalantly, “Is this someone our Ms. Cole?”

 

“Negative. Ms. Cole is hosting a holoviewing tonight for a few of the senior officers.”

 

Faro opened her mouth to confirm the recent changes she’d noticed to the night shift duty roster when she recognized the opportunity before her. 

 

“Now that I think about it, I’m not sure any of the original invitees will be able to attend. Pyrondi, as you know, is...occupied, and Hammerly is studying for the com review boards.”

 

_Take out the bait—_

 

“And you will not be attending?” Thrawn asked after a moment of contemplation. 

 

_Set the bait—_

 

“Unfortunately, not. I have a mountain of paperwork waiting for me in my quarters. So it looks like there might not be anyone there tonight... besides Ms. Cole.”

 

_Pull back the trap—_

 

“Ah.” Thrawn breathed out, and resumed looking at the weapons console.

 

_Come on, just a little bit further—_

 

“In that case, I know what I must do. It would be unfortunate for Ms. Cole to have no one at her soirée. As Grand Admiral I must do what I can to ensure positive diplomatic relations between the Galactic Government and its representatives. 

 

_And—_

 

_Snap._

 

“Rightly so, sir.”

 

*

 

When the bridge lift door shut behind her after her shift, Karyn Faro pulled out her com.

 

“Hammerly here.”

 

“It’s Karyn. If anyone asks, you’re studying for the com review tonight." 

 

“But I’m— _we’re_ going to Juna’s—"

 

“No. _You’re_ coming to my quarters. I’ll explain everything when I get there.” 

 

“You made me watch _all_ those holo episodes just to—“

 

“Do you trust me?” Faro interjected.

 

Hammerly blew out an annoyed puff of air. “Do I have a choice?” 

 

“That’s my girl. Now come to my quarters. And bring that Lothalian wine I _know_ you have.”

 

*

 

In Juna’s stateroom, she and Pooja were prepping for the next seminar when the assistant’s com went off.

 

After checking it, Pooja cleared her throat. “It seems I am needed.”

 

“Needed where?” Juna asked without looking up from the data pad she’d been arranging her next slideshow on. “You’re my assistant.” 

 

“Is that so?”

 

Juna looked up and shrugged. “Well not for much longer if you don’t finish prepping these slides,” Juna responded, handing her the datapad.

 

Pooja shot her an exasperated look and took the datapad. “Since when have you ever been prepared? I barely know you and I’ve never seen you do anything without flying by the seat of your pants.”

 

“Boss’ privilege. When you’re the boss, then you can do it your way.”

 

They slipped into a companionable silence and it was only a moment later when Juna felt a familiar voice in her head once again bossing her around: _Let Pooja go tonight._

 

“Fine,” Juna surrendered with a sigh, not entirely sure whom she was addressing. “Go on then.”

 

Pooja jumped up and grabbed her cowl. “I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to go with you to the series finale tonight.” 

 

“It’s fine. It’s not like it’s my favorite show or anything.”

 

“I’ll make it up to you,” said Pooja, as she checked her reflection in the mirror by the doors, “We’ll do a night in with your girl gang.”

 

That didn’t sound too bad, to be honest. With the general lack of progress on her investigation, any distractions were welcome.. It wasn’t racing speeder bikes, but it beat sitting alone in a stars forsaken Star Destroyer nursing a Corellian brandy and brooding. 

 

“Deal. But only if you make that bread with the meilooruns. I would kill for a slice of that.”

 

“Deal. Also—in a __completely__ unrelated note—Pyrondi can’t make it tonight,” she said with a wink.

 

Juna huffed out a laugh. “Have fun with your girlfriend.” 

 

Pooja smiled, and was gone.

 

Juna draped a blanket around her shoulders, making a valiantly futile effort to ignore how empty the room suddenly felt, telling herself that traveling in space was to blame for the sudden lack of warmth.

 

She picked up the discarded data pad and got back to work. 

 

*

 

Because force users were now taboo, it led to a lot of glorification of them, at best, and painfully ignorant misinformation regarding them, at worst. Somewhere in the middle of all that guessing, laid the idea that all force sensitives had an innate sense of direction due to their ability to connect with anything on a molecular level, whether it be a Wookie, or a gonk droid. 

 

It was this notion that Juna found herself cursing an hour later, having put aside her work, and attempting to find the holoprojector room she had reserved. 

 

There was nothing innate about the way she wound inexpertly around the ship in circles, most likely resembling a lost bantha without a Tusken Raider. 

 

Just as she was about to give up hope, she turned the corner and saw the holoprojector room’s door. _Thank the force_ , she thought, reaching out with her code cylinder to key for entry. 

 

The door whooshed open and she found herself face to face with the last person her conscious mind expected to see at the _Kallea’s Hope_ season finale premiere viewing: Grand Admiral Thrawn. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't @ me but I listened to the Outlander soundtrack as I finished up this chapter. I can't decide whether I hate that show or I love it too much.

**Author's Note:**

> “The whole point of this site is if you want to read fic, celebrate fandom and leave comments for the author to enjoy, you can! You are free to do so. To me, that’s beautiful. -Ron Swanson"  
> -ThreeBeetsToTheWind


End file.
